


This Is Something Else

by sheffiesharpe



Series: At Least There's The Football [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea is totally a ninja, Gratuitous Harry Potter References, Greg Lestrade has two nieces and is good at football, Greg Lestrade is secretly punk rock, Lestrades don't dance except when they do, M/M, Sexual Content, blame it on the Cava, silver foxes are sexy in all languages, smart-dressed man, world domination through charm and tango dancing, your boyfriend isn't actually a Tory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:58:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheffiesharpe/pseuds/sheffiesharpe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The wedding in Barcelona. Not theirs, of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Something Else

**Author's Note:**

> There was so much music in this one that I made a playlist on YouTube. Check it out [here](http://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5853378149B20D5D).

The wedding is only three weeks out, and it’s starting to sink in that it’s just around the corner and he hasn’t really done anything about that yet. Including telling his mum that he’s bringing Mycroft. He’ll have to make reservations at the guest house the next street over from his parents’. It’s a nice little place, a bit lace-doily but quiet and clean and a five-minute walk away. Mari’s parents stayed there a few times. As soon as the thought occurs, he knows he can’t put it off for another day, not really for another minute, because he’s going to get a telling off as it is. And he’s fine with kipping on the sofa if the guest house is full up, but he’s not having Mycroft sleep on the fold-away in the sitting room. Which would put them in a hotel, fifteen minutes in the car either way from the house, and that sort of defeats the purpose of everyone gathering there.

He tries not to sigh as he dials the country code and the number. His mother answers, and she shouts for his father, and he liked it better, maybe, before they retired and he could leave messages on the machine. After a few pleasantries about the weather and the garden, there’s no putting it off anymore.

“Would it be all right,” he says, “if I brought Mycroft with me at the month’s end?” Putting it like that makes him feel like he’s ten again, asking if a mate could stay over, and as soon as that crosses his mind, it’s worse: like being fourteen and asking if a mate could stay over, knowing full well that as soon as they turned in for the night they’d snog themselves into sticky oblivion. He shakes his head, reminds himself of the guest house: distance. Safe, lovely distance. And not having to feel ridiculous fooling around under his parents' roof. They'll be there for the waking hours, anyway, and that won't be negotiable.

But his mum actually makes a noise that he’d swear was Betsy if he didn’t know better, and his father says, yes, of course. Neither of them actually say any variation on the phrase, “It’s about bloody time,” but he can still hear it as though they had.

“So I’ll call Nan and Luc and make sure they’ve got room for us.” He’s got the phone number ready.

“No need,” his mum says. There’s something in her tone that he doesn't quite trust.

“Robert and Marisol are going to stay there. You and your Tory will have the guest room. Your mother refinished the _porte-fenêtre_ ,” his da says. “It is very nice.”

Lestrade feels his blood pressure spike, and he doesn't bother objecting to the Tory line because there are larger issues at hand. The first time Mycroft meets everyone, all at once, and without a point of retreat at all— “That feels like a little much,” he says. Not that he’s worried. Terribly. Just that it means it’s going to be pretty well impossible to escape, and Mycroft’s so generally reserved—“We could—”

“Bob and Mari never have time alone together.” His mum’s voice is firm. “And then you’ll have more time with the girls, and they’ll be through the roof about that.” And she laughs a little. “I promise we’ll be gentle with him.”

His father makes a neutral sound.

“I’ll believe that,” Lestrade says, but he finds himself half-grinning. It's utter madness, but now that the thought's in his head, he feels a little pleased about it. Particularly because it means he can get up at two in the morning to see what kind of ice cream his father has in the freezer, which he couldn’t do from the guest house. There’s something about the middle of the night that makes homemade pistachio ice cream that much better. Now the hard part will be to break that news to Mycroft.

But once that phone call is complete, it only drives home how much else they haven’t talked about. He expected, actually, to have to work at getting Mycroft to the wedding alone, not necessarily because he didn't want to come but because of his position. The trip after, to Marseilles, had been something of an afterthought. Now, though, it's suddenly become a great deal more real. Immediate. Uncharted.

Later, when he breaks the news to Mycroft about the lodging situation, though surprised, Mycroft responds with his usual aplomb and grace.

“They want to see you, of course. As much as possible.” He touches Lestrade’s hand. “And I certainly cannot fault them for that.” Mycroft is admirably acknowledging the gentler half of the truth. Yes, it's been since Christmas and, as a family, they're all fairly fond of spending time together. But this is the first time he's brought someone to a family function. Mycroft knows that. More specifically, Mycroft's been warned about that.

“But this affects you, too. You sure you’re all right with it?” They could do a hotel. His parents would be hacked off, but it certainly wouldn't be the first time he did that, and, ultimately, they’re reasonable people. "You won’t hurt my feelings being honest.”

Mycroft gives him one of his patient looks. “Yes, spending three days in southern France with you in your parents’ home will be such a hardship. However will I manage. If only there were a nuclear crisis to which I could escape.” He’s smiling, one of his more Holmesian versions.

Lestrade shoves at his shoulder a bit, leans back against the sofa. “I’ll remember you said that.”

Mycroft doesn’t even acknowledge the statement, only checks something on his phone as he tangles their legs together, and minutes pass. Lestrade reaches for his laptop, checks on their transportation options. Train takes a bit longer, but he definitely prefers it to flying. And Mycroft flies so often. He asks Mycroft his preference, and Mycroft's eyebrows are furrowed as he looks up from his phone. He purses his lips a little, his fingertips walking out across the brown fabric of his trousers.

Lestrade feels something heavy in his chest. Still, he knew this might happen; Mycroft’s schedule is what it is. Before he can say anything, though, Mycroft edges closer.

“I was hoping,” he says, “you wouldn’t mind if I drove.” He looks so hopeful, so strangely earnest. And that was not what Lestrade was expecting him to say.

“That’s almost a thousand miles.” Just the one way. He tries to calculate mileage, time—“That’s a sixteen-hour drive.” Including the Channel Tunnel. That's without the necessary stops for food and fuel and the like. He’s never been on such a long roadtrip.

There’s a certain expression on Mycroft’s face, a satisfaction. “I could make it in twelve.”

“Speeding is unsafe and illegal.” Still, the thought of ripping down the A75 in Mycroft's Aston makes him a little hard.

“France is out of your jurisdiction.” Mycroft lifts his chin.

“Out of yours, too.” He sips at his coffee.

Mycroft gives him that rather terrifying expression, says, “Is it?”

It’s easier—better—to pretend that that’s a joke. Mycroft taps his fingertips expectantly, as though waiting for some sort of answer. It sinks in: “You’re serious.” There’s a little bark of a laugh in the back of his throat.

“Yes.” As though Mycroft can’t figure out why he’d be surprised. And Mycroft’s expression changes to one he’s never seen: imploring. “I never get to take the car out properly anymore.”

“That’ll add almost two days of travel time, even if we go straight through." Two more days together. Just the two of them, the road, the stereo.

Mycroft nods, squeezes his hand. "Yes.”

Kissing him is the only option.

***

Once the girls have their media privileges back, he hears from them at least a few times a week as the wedding gets closer, and one night, Marisol leaves Betsy at home with him, on Skype. It's a controlled experiment; both he and Betsy have three phone numbers for emergency contacts beside them, and Marisol and Corrie will only be gone for two hours for football practice. So he and Betsy queue up _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire_ and watch the film together. They've both seen it before, of course, so he's not surprised when it turns chatty or when Betsy runs to her room and comes back with the dress she's wearing for the wedding and holds it up to the webcam quickly. Then she's flopped back in front of the computer and her snack.

"What are you wearing?" Betsy crunches a slice of apple expectantly.

"Purple shirt was a big hit," he says. "Might get a new suit." Wearing black to a summer wedding in June in Spain feels odd, anyway.

Betsy looks at him askance. In the background, Harry Potter is in a bath with the golden egg, and he's kind of glad her attention is on his apparently inadequate wardrobe choices, judging by her expression.

"What?"

"He's already seen that shirt." Betsy props her chin in her hand. "And Lola's colours are—" she casts about, gets the invitation in her hand, holds it up. "—purplish burgundy and this pale gold. You don't want to look like you're in the wedding, do you?"

That he can honestly say he does not want. And when he concedes that yes, Mycroft has seen the purple shirt, but Mycroft's already seen almost all of his wardrobe, she makes it clear that that is not the right answer at all.

"It's a special occasion."

"It's not _my_ wedding."

"No," she says. "But Da said you never brought any of your other boyfriends to things. And you had other boyfriends." She casts a glance over her shoulder and Harry Potter is thankfully clothed again. "Like Will," she says. "You showed us a picture the other Christmas, but he didn't come along. And you never said you were dating. Why not?"

He's not going to say that most of the blokes he's been with considered exemption from all of the family business as one of the perks of being queer. Because if he'd wanted to introduce Will—or anyone—to his family, he could have. At the very least, he could talk about it. He's always known that. All he can do is shrug. “Didn’t seem right at the time. Besides," he says. "I wouldn't want to get your gran all worked up over nothing. You heard stories about how she reacted to your mum." Positive, all around, of course, but—intense.

Betsy nods. Oh, they’ve all heard. Marisol still says she’s never been as hungover as she was after the night she got cornered with the rosé. Lestrade makes a mental note to tell Mycroft to beware Englishwomen bearing bottles of wine because they may look sweet and gentle, but it’s only a trick to drink him under the table and then, in the fruity-soft haze, ask deeply personal questions. Betsy points with her next apple slice. “So why’s Mycroft different?” The little grin on her face says she knows exactly what she’s doing. “Because, obviously, you’re going to get Gran all worked up over him.”

She’s already worked up. And Betsy keeps looking at him, expectantly.

“If she’s in a tizzy about him, that’s your fault.” Which is true. His parents heard it first from the girls. Particularly all of the incriminating details about Mycroft’s wardrobe and the country house and the _Jeeves & Wooster_ nights and Tío _holding hands_.

The expression on her face says she’s not sorry about that at all. “And?”

“And,” he says, and there’s no real getting around it. “And I suppose, for Mycroft, it’ll be well worth it.” It’s still terrifying, still good to say out loud.

Even from three thousand miles away, Betsy’s grin is electric, and she balls up her hands in the sleeves of her shirt, clasps them under her chin. He’s not sure he’s going to survive that expression on her face. He retreats to the safety of his coffee for a moment before he swallows, says, “But you have to help out. If Gran or Pépé have him cornered and he needs rescuing—or if your Gran has baby pictures—you have my back on this? You and Corrie both.”

The expression on her face says he’s out of luck on the second part.

“But you were so cute.”

He pulls a hurt expression. “What, I’m not cute now?”

She shakes her head. “No, now you’re ‘rakishly handsome.’ Mycroft said so.” The innocent look fails her completely.

“See if I ever let the two of you together again. Gossips.” Coffee again. “Not nice, talking about people.”

“But you’re his favorite subject. And everything he said was very nice. Except about those checked shirts you have. He hates those.” She points at the one he’s wearing. It’s one of his regular work shirts. He’s replaced it three times, just the same, because it seems like there’s always one just like it at M&S.

“What’s wrong with the shirt?” It serves its function: looks presentable, keeps him from being naked.

“ ‘It can’t keep up with the rest of you’.” She sips at her juice. “Frankly, I agree. It’s boring. You’re not boring.”

Mycroft’s said the same thing about his pyjamas and his pants, but Lestrade is sure that had nothing to do with the quality of his wardrobe and everything to do with getting his clothes off faster. And while he’s absolutely certain Mycroft hasn’t told Betsy a bit of _that_ , the phrase echoes. He clears his throat. “ _Frankly_ , it’s a shirt, and it does its job while I do mine.”

She shrugs and makes a noncommittal noise that she definitely didn’t make before she was on the cusp of turning thirteen. They’re having a birthday dinner in Marseilles for her. She changes the subject, but only just: "So what’s Mycroft wearing?"

"I don't know." He grins. "Hopefully he'll scrounge something together and won't embarrass me too badly."

Betsy sticks her tongue out at him and they laugh.

***

They leave for Barcelona Thursday evening, stop for the night outside of Roye. The two hundred miles pass with conspicuous ease, even at Calais, but Mycroft doesn’t say anything about it, only conducts Liszt in the minute tap of his fingertip on the steering wheel. They spend the night in a small guest house, and Lestrade sees Anthea’s Triumph in the car-park, but he doesn’t see her. The car is already gone when they leave.

Outside of Orléans, the midnight blue Triumph passes them on the right. The roads are sparsely trafficked, and Mycroft weaves between the few cars that are there with deceptive ease. The speedometer hasn’t dropped below ninety-five miles per hour for a while, and he knows that’s well above the posted limit. But they’ve passed a number of French police—quite literally passed on three occasions—and certainly several dozen traffic cameras, and there’s been no apparent notice at all.

When Anthea zips by them, she flutters the fingers of her right hand at Lestrade, though she doesn’t so much as glance at them. Then she cuts in front of them, but the distance doesn’t elongate. The Aston surges, and when he looks at Mycroft, there’s that grin curling the left side of his mouth. The speedometer climbs, and though he’s checked a number of times already, he checks again: it goes to two hundred. He shouldn’t want it, but he’d really like to see Mycroft _really_ push the car. The day is fine: dry and bright, and their progress through France is unimpeded by anything except the need for petrol and a sandwich. And they don’t need either of those things right now.

Lestrade gets a firm grip on the edge of the seat, puts his right arm against the edge of Mycroft’s seat, and they pass Anthea again—this time, she flips a lazy two fingers as they go past, and the lush green landscape whips by. By the time they’re as far as Clermont-Ferrand, the pace has eased some, but only in favour of driving with the windows open for a while. They’re still passing the regular traffic right and left, and Lestrade would feel bad about that, but Mycroft has the driving well under control. Lestrade hooks his fingertips on the top edge of the door, his forearm bisecting the open window. Mycroft’s jacket has been folded neatly in the backseat since this morning, and his sleeves are rolled neatly to the elbow. His cufflinks are in Lestrade’s jeans pocket, and from time to time, he runs his fingers over the shape of them beneath the denim.

At Saint-Flour, where they stop for petrol and drinks, Mycroft offers him the keys.

“Seriously?”

“You’re licensed, I trust you, and I should take care of a few things.” Mycroft is already sliding into the passenger seat, twisting the cap from his bottle of sparkling water. By the time Lestrade puts himself behind the wheel—stroking the sleek black door frame as he gets in, running his fingertips over the polished chrome accents—Mycroft’s thumb scrolls something rapidly on the small screen.

He has to adjust the seat for his shorter legs, the mirrors, too, but when he pulls back onto the asphalt, the gearbox is the smoothest he’s ever encountered, the gear lever like an extension of his own arm. The car’s into triple digits before he even quite realizes it, and he startles himself into laughter with it. He’s done faster, in training scenarios and a lot of times on a motorcycle for no other reason than it seemed like a good idea at the time, but that’s nothing like this, the sheer solid feeling of absolute _quality_ in the machine.

“Fuck me, this is brilliant.”

Mycroft smiles his cat’s smile as he looks away from his task of the moment. “It looks like it agrees with you.”

“Can I—” He gestures at the stereo. Without answering, Mycroft opens the sleeve of CDs, slips the second disc of _Sandinista!_ into the player, and turns the volume to what must surely be eleven. He looks back at his mobile, doing no more to acknowledge the noise than the bass-pedal tap of his foot.

He lets his head loll against the headrest. It’s ecstasy. “God, I—” Lestrade catches the word before it comes out. He swallows, sits up a little. “Good choice,” he says, eyes on the lorry in front of them, attention on the easy swing around it. When he glances at Mycroft, Mycroft’s eyes are back on the phone, but it felt like he was looking, half a second earlier.

At the Spanish border, Lestrade notices that Anthea is neither before nor behind them, though Mycroft seems unconcerned, and their passports receive what can’t even be described as a cursory glance. Mycroft drives from the border into Barcelona because he says he knows where he’s going and Lestrade believes him. He’s seen Sherlock do his map tricks often enough.

In the passenger seat, too, he’s free to manage his mobile, which keeps alerting him to the texts from the girls: Are they there yet? Then one from Marisol: the girls have been removed from the mobile, and would he and Mycroft like to have dinner with her and Bob?

He glances at Mycroft, who’s been putting him through his singing paces, since the border, with the assorted albums Lestrade’s brought along. Things got downright comical on his attempts at Siegfried’s forging song. He looks up from the screen.

“Have I sung enough for my supper? Bob and Mari asked us out later.” The gamut of meeting people starts.

Mycroft shakes his head as though to clear the failed operatic noise from his ears, half-laughing, half-horrified. “If I say yes, will you go back to Clapton?”

He’s already texting the affirmative back to Marisol. “You started it with the Wagner business. I warned you.” He hasn’t got anything like the correct range, and the extent of his German is derived mostly from Eddie Izzard’s stand-up.

“I will not do it again.”

“Thank Christ.”

***

The hotel is every bit as beautiful as it seemed on the website, and the room is a small suite, a tiny sitting room attached to the bedroom, a balcony overlooking a quiet side-street. There’s not as much time as he would like between their arriving at the room and when Bob and Marisol will be back from visiting with Marisol’s parents, just long enough to get things settled and, in Mycroft’s words, “to freshen up a bit.”

Lestrade hangs his clothes as Mycroft disappears into the lav, his bag with him. Without question, Mycroft will wear a full suit. He trades his polo for a white Oxford, rolls the sleeves up to his elbows. Mycroft emerges from the toilet wearing a fresh shirt beneath a camel waistcoat, a sage tie. He holds out his wrists where the cloth is still hanging loose because his cufflinks are still in Lestrade’s pocket.

Lestrade fits the silver posts through the buttonholes, sets the pale jade studs. He rubs his thumb over Mycroft’s freshly shaven cheek. He’s not even sure how it’s possible for him to have shaved so quickly. But he has. Lestrade inhales deeply, right there beneath his chin. He always smells fantastic. “You _are_ fancy.” He grins, knowing Bob will likely be dressed exactly like he is, though his shirt will be black. Marisol, though, will class up that half of the equation.

He puts on his jacket, and Lestrade would like to know how he can look so at ease in so many layers. So at ease, and also so terribly sexy despite the excessive fabric. And yet he looks perfectly cool for all that. But there's that left hand. “Would you rather I changed?” Implied: something more casual.

Lestrade shakes his head. “Be just as you are.” He leans in and kisses the corner of Mycroft’s mouth. "And they'll be harder on me than on you."

Mycroft's lips quirk. "I am well-acquainted with the prerogatives of the elder sibling."

"I don't expect Bob'll kidnap you and make veiled threats in a warehouse."

Mycroft adjusts his cuffs. "Sometimes John is particularly dramatic in his storytelling." He grins, though. The thought of John being dramatic about anything.

His mobile buzzes. A text from Bob. _Put your trousers back on. We're in the lobby._ He shoves the phone back in his pocket, kisses Mycroft one more time. "Ready?"

Mycroft nods. "Let's, then."

The lift ride down is quick, and Bob and Marisol are standing in front of the lobby fountain. They're watching the lift, and Marisol waits until they're only a few steps away before she steps in, hugs him tight. "Well done," she whispers in his ear. He doesn't even try to cover the grin. Bob steps in to hug him, too, slaps his back harder than is really necessary. He can't believe it's been since Christmas. Bob's tattoo is down to his elbow now, a fringe of ink visible under his sleeve, and Lestrade will have to get a better look at it later. But later, because Mycroft is at his side.

"Bob, Marisol," he says, "this is Mycroft Holmes."

"So this is the man," Marisol says, "my children keep talking about." When he reaches to take her hand, ostensibly intending that disarming half-bow he does, Marisol uses it to tug him down, put both hands on his shoulders, and kiss him soundly on both cheeks. "So very nice to meet you." When he straightens, her head comes up only to his shoulder. He ducks to return the kisses, though less emphatically.

Bob steps in, shakes his hand. "That's my wife," he says, but he's grinning, and he glances at Lestrade. "And that’s my brother. My condolences."

"Oi," he says, and Mari _tsks_ , and Mycroft's fingertips brush his forearm before his whole arm comes around Lestrade's waist.

"Despite the hardship," Mycroft says, "I shall manage to cope." There's the slightest bit of pressure at his side where Mycroft's hand rests, just for a moment. Lestrade fights the urge to simply lean into Mycroft's side, regardless of the heat, the public setting, and Bob's faintly stunned expression.

"Right," he says, when Mycroft's arm slips away. "Wasn't the purpose of this meet-up to leave the hotel lobby?"

Bob takes the hint and makes the first move for the door. Before she turns away, Marisol gives him a look he can only describe as giddy. He rolls his eyes at her, but he still hangs back until Mycroft's hand lands at the base of his spine, nudges him past the doorman.

The night is pleasantly warm, the air faintly marine, and Marisol points out the local businesses that have changed in this part of the city since last they were here. The tapas bar they’re going to, she says, is not one of those.

“It’s been here for sixty-seven years,” she says. “My favourite for the last twenty.” One of Barcelona’s better-kept secrets.

“Twenty?” Bob says, even though he’s clearly heard it all before. “You’ve been coming here since you were four?”

She reaches up, taps her open hand against his cheek softly. “ _Bobo._ ” But her hand trails down his chest and around to his back pocket, and they walk the rest of the way to the bar that way, Mari’s fingers tucked behind his wallet.

Lestrade steals a glance at Mycroft, and he’s not looking at them particularly, but there’s a faintly pleased look on his face. Mycroft doesn’t say anything about it, though, only asks if Lestrade’s been to this particular establishment before.

He nods. “Once. Long time ago, though,” he says as they step through the open door into the bar’s soft yellow light. “Looking forward to the refresher.”

“Long enough ago that Greg still had dark hair.” Bob pulls out Marisol’s chair for her.

Lestrade barely avoids explaining to Bob just how much he hates him—Bob’s hair is still mostly walnut-brown, just a few silver hairs coming through at his temples, and he’s been more grey than not since he was thirty-four—when Mycroft’s fingertips touch the base of his skull, comb through his hair for a moment. He can’t help the shiver it causes.

“I’m glad to know him now, as it is. It’s very striking.” He sits to Marisol’s left, and Lestrade takes the chair to Bob’s left, and they have a clear view of the street to one side, the rest of the bar on the other.

Marisol gives him another one of those half-melted looks, and Bob smacks his knee under the table in a way that’s kind of affectionate.

Lestrade clears his throat. “So no girls tonight?”

“ _Con los abuelos_ ,” Marisol says, which confirms what he expected. The Lestrade side of the family will have them for three days after the wedding, so it’s only fair that Mari’s parents have some time with them. Glasses and a bottle of wine appear.

“ _Qué lástima_ ,” Mycroft says, with real regret, and Marisol grins. And then they’re off in a flurry of Spanish that’s so fast that he can see Bob trying to keep up with the conversation. Lestrade himself got lost in the use of the subjunctive. All he can go on is the expression on Bob’s face and a few sly glances from Marisol because, of course, Mycroft’s face gives away nothing.

“I don’t want to know,” he says when they stop. The server puts down a tray of oysters, wedges of lemon.

“Nope.” Bob squeezes lemon across a glistening shell, tips it back.

Mycroft’s foot nudges his own under the table, something bright in his eyes. Lestrade licks his lower lip, takes a sip of his wine.

Small plates arrive and keep arriving—cheeses and Iberian ham and olives and marinated artichoke hearts and medallions of pork loin and spiced almonds—and Lestrade remembers, again, how much he loves going out with Bob and Marisol. Bob explains the differences between Iberian and Serrano ham, and Marisol describes where these particular olives come from, and those, and tells about having been to some of Spain’s olive groves as a child.

“My father,” she says, “loves Spanish things.”

“And that is the one thing he and I have in common,” Bob says, and they laugh. Lestrade laughs because now it can be funny. It wasn’t always, particularly at the beginning, when all Bob had was a bad haircut and a worse tattoo. But they’ve made their peace now.

Mycroft offers some anecdotes about time spent in Greece, Turkey, Morocco, olives, tea, wine. He and Bob agree on disliking black olives, and Marisol shakes her head in despair, but she relents when Mycroft asks about her family’s winery. Lestrade settles back in his chair, just listens while they talk grapes and growing seasons, soil and sommeliers.

***

They're barely into their room again when the phone rings. “Could the girls have a few minutes?” Marisol says. “A very few, and then I promise the evening is all yours.”

Of course the answer is yes, and the phone is no sooner back on the receiver than there are footsteps in the hallway and a knock on the door. When he opens the door, Corrie flings herself at him, her arms around his neck, her feet dangling, and Betsy catches him around the ribs.

“Didn’t I just see you?” he says. Despite that, he thinks they’re both taller than they were two and a half months ago, and it’s confirmed when they finally hold still. Corrie’s head is now just below his shoulder, and the top of Betsy’s head is barely beneath his chin.

“It was a hundred years ago,” Corrie says, and both she and Betsy hug Mycroft, albeit much more gently. Mycroft looks surprised.

Betsy looks around the room, peering at the empty sofa and toward the lavatory door, just slightly ajar. “No Anthea?”

Lestrade sees Corrie’s little rabbit-punch to Betsy’s hip, then the tug at Betsy’s shirt-hem, how her fingertips stay knotted there a moment. He doesn’t say anything about it, though, only looks to Mycroft for the answer to that question. He's surprised he hasn't seen her, actually, since just before the border.

"She's taking care of some things for me," he says. He doesn't elaborate on what those things are, and Lestrade isn't about to ask in front of the girls. The girls' faces fall. Mycroft says, "I'm certain she'll make an appearance."

Lestrade can see the _when_ forming on Corrie's lips, but she doesn't ask. Instead, she says that they have to have breakfast with the _abuelos_. "And then we have to get ready and then we have to go to the church. Like, two hours early." She sighs like she's thirty-seven.

"Sound check," Betsy says, to make sure the microphone works without feedback and the music stand and chair are right, and she explains that Corrie has to go over the candle-lighting order because there are so very many. And after the ceremony, there are pictures.

Corrie ties a noose in the air. Betsy pushes her hands down.

After fifteen minutes, Bob comes by to pick the girls up, and Lestrade promises they can sit together at the wedding. Betsy says they have to be sure to sit close to the front so that they can hear well, and Corrie, as soon as Bob’s around the corner and into the hall, turns to Lestrade and mimes smoothing lapels she isn’t wearing, straightens an invisible bowtie. And then she’s gone and the door is closed.

“I have a feeling I’m going to be a dead man tomorrow.” Right around the time that Corrie refuses to wear the dress that he’s certain has been purchased for her for months and she says something to the effect of _Tío didn’t make me wear a dress_.

Mycroft steps in behind him, rests his chin on Lestrade’s shoulder a moment before he kisses beneath his ear. “Then tonight should be particularly worthwhile, hm?” His mouth is warm and wet and soft, and Mycroft is already untucking his shirt. Lestrade tips his head to the side to give him more room, and Mycroft’s hand slides over his stomach as his lips brush the edge of his ear. Despite the warmth of the room, it makes him shiver.

“I like that idea.” When he glances down, half of the buttons on his shirt have already been undone. He reaches back, curls an arm around Mycroft’s waist to keep him close, and Mycroft’s prick presses against his arse. Mycroft’s mouth is still against his ear, and when Lestrade shifts against him, Mycroft’s teeth tighten on his earring, just a bit. When he does it again, Mycroft’s hand goes tight on his hip, holds him still as he arches cautiously closer.

Lestrade hazards a soft sound, and Mycroft’s exhale is hot on his neck. “I have another idea.” Twisting in Mycroft’s arms, until they’re chest to chest, Lestrade’s shirt already open, Mycroft still in his waistcoat and shirt, Lestrade kisses him. “I don’t want you to answer right away,” he says, and Mycroft looks quizzically at him, though his gaze keeps slipping down to his mouth. Lestrade waits until he nods, though, before he says the rest of it. “I’m going to have a shower. And while I’m doing that, I want you to think on whether you’d like to have sex with me. Specifically, whether you’d like to fuck me.” It is extraordinarily difficult not to simply snog him until Mycroft demonstrates his answer one way or another, but he wants him to actually think about it. “Some people aren’t interested in penetrative sex.” He’s dated a few, and a lot of oral sex from here on out certainly wouldn’t qualify as a tragedy. So—“If you don’t want to, or you don’t want to yet—I don’t mind.” Mycroft’s hands are still splayed across his back. He hasn’t so much as blinked in thirty seconds. “But if you are interested, I’m offering.” One closed-mouth kiss and he slips from Mycroft’s arms, steps into the toilet, closes the door.

Once inside, he leans against the cool tile of the wall for a moment, hopes Mycroft isn’t thrown by the question, hopes he isn’t distressed by it. Hopes, actually, that it’s crossed his mind already. It’s tempting to edge the door open and look at him, but that’s not giving him space to properly think about it, either. And he does, actually, want the shower, to scrub away the staleness of being in the car for so many hours earlier and the heat of the day. He steps into the spray, washes himself twice over, and stands for a little while under water he adjusts cooler and cooler. Even under nearly cold water, he’s still half-hard, and he’d take care of himself if it weren’t for the hope that Mycroft will say yes, yes _now_ , right this very second, and that isn’t helping at all. He dries himself and puts on the robe that Mycroft had taken from the closet earlier. The thick terrycloth is going to be too warm in a moment, but it’s perfect as he’s brushing his teeth.

He runs a hand through his hair and edges the door open, but Mycroft isn’t on the bed. There is, however, a standing brass champagne bucket—sporting a bottle of Dom Pérignon 2000 Rosé Vintage—and on the nightstand, a small platter of fresh figs and strawberries.

He swallows the bubble of slightly nervous laughter and turns the corner to find Mycroft standing on the balcony, his mobile loose in his hand as he leans against the terracotta tile. He's still wearing everything but his jacket, and the proximity of his phone generally means he was using it. Mycroft isn't one of those people who keeps his mobile visible unless he's actually engaged with it. And that's often, but—but all of that's beside the point. Lestrade steps out onto the balcony, is grateful that the railing is actually solid, a waist-high wall that's bracketed with potted flowers and vines so the whole thing is a riot of green and pink and yellow.

Mycroft turns to him, and Lestrade can't read the look on his face. “Please tell me all that isn't some elaborate apology." He steps in closer, takes one of Mycroft's hands. "I said it was fine either way and I meant it."

Mycroft uses Lestrade's grip on his hand to tug him in close, sudden, and Mycroft's hands are inside the bathrobe all at once. "No," he says, pressing his face into the crook of Lestrade's neck and mouthing at the water-cooled skin there. "It is very much a yes." Mycroft wraps him closer still, and the halves of the bathrobe fall open, and Lestrade hopes, a lot, that no one's watching too closely because if Mycroft moves away, someone's getting an eyeful. But Mycroft isn't moving away, and he's clearly aware of how very naked Lestrade is beneath the robe because his hands are already spread against his ribs, on the outside plane of his hip.

"Planning to do it right here?" Lestrade nips at his jawline, kisses. It's sort of a joke. It's sort of not a joke. He's had sex in more adventurous places, though not any time recently, and definitely not anywhere he had family members within a few hundred feet. Luckily, Bob and Marisol's room is on the back side of the hotel. All he has to worry about now is the fact that they're more or less facing the street. Ten stories up. It's a quietish street at the moment, but a street nonetheless.

But Mycroft lifts his head, glances around, glances at the terrycloth framing the bare centre of Lestrade’s body. “Oh.” He backs them into the room again, slides the glass door closed, the curtain, too. When they’re inside, though, Mycroft draws back a little bit, reties Lestrade’s robe, leads him to the edge of the bed, pours champagne.

Lestrade accepts his glass, takes a sip, and it is exquisite. Mycroft looks particularly pleased at the sound he makes, sits beside him.

“This is fantastic,” he says, and he kisses Mycroft’s hand. “But you don’t have to seduce me, you know. I’m a pretty done deal. I have been, since the beginning.” Maybe he means that differently than he might have six months ago, too. All of the versions are true.

“Perhaps I’d like to, anyway.” Mycroft holds out a piece of fig.

He takes the fruit with his mouth, and it is sweet, soft, delicious. He offers a strawberry between his teeth, and Mycroft leans close, nips it in half. The kiss that follows is berry-bright, and Mycroft follows that kiss with another, another still, though he doesn’t move to undress, doesn’t open the robe again.

Mycroft allows him to remove his tie, his waistcoat, and this time, they do end up thrown, end up somewhere near the wall. But he stops Lestrade’s hands after the first two buttons of his shirt, bends his head instead to mouth at Lestrade’s neck, to drag the point of his tongue over his Adam’s apple, to nip at his earlobe, to tug again on the silver stud.

Lestrade moans. “Tease.” And Mycroft’s breath is an amused puff beside his ear, and maybe he takes some pity on him, straddling his knees, urging him a little higher on the bed. Lestrade kicks the neatly folded comforter to the floor, which Mycroft seems to find even funnier. Mycroft’s hands knead his arms through the plush robe, nudge the sleeves up a bit, rub his wrists, his forearms.

When Mycroft’s hands finally find bare skin properly, he still doesn’t strip away the robe, barely even disturbs the belt. He only pushes his hands up from Lestrade’s knees, strokes the outside of his hips, drags his short fingernails down the inside of his thighs until everything feels hypersensitive, alight. The following kiss turns half-desperate, and Lestrade returns to the buttons on Mycroft’s shirt. No one stops him, and Mycroft undoes his cuffs while Lestrade pushes back the white cotton, presses his face to Mycroft’s chest and breathes. His nipples are firm under his tongue, and Lestrade licks as Mycroft hurries to strip off his shirt and then to push the robe off Lestrade’s shoulders. They end up diagonal on the bed by the time Mycroft’s trousers fall to the floor, half-tangled in the sheet when they’re finally both naked.

“How,” Mycroft starts, and it’s as though he intends to finish the thought, but the need to kiss him again is more pressing. Lestrade takes his meaning and the kiss.

“Here,” he says, and he backs away a little, rolls onto his hands and knees. Mycroft needs no urging to follow, is already tucked up against him, pressing his mouth to the individual vertebrae in the middle of his back.

Mycroft’s fingertip touches his lips. “I won’t be able to see you.”

Lestrade kisses the digit. “I know.” That’s part of the point. “We’ll get there.” He turns again so Mycroft can see him, so he can say this to his face. “I want you to trust me. I promise you that I will enjoy this—” Understatement of the year. “—and I promise I will tell you if I’m not enjoying it.” He touches Mycroft’s cheek. “Let me focus this on you.” He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t imagined this moment hundreds of times. And nearly every version has still come back to this, to giving Mycroft the chance to do nothing but react, to feel and act on that, without having to worry about anything. The kind of first time Lestrade wishes he’d had and that he’d been able to give to someone else. But the last time it was relevant, he was young, and there was uncertainty and ego to consider, there were nerves, there was something to prove.

He reaches for the bedside table, the little drawer, and takes out the lubricant, shows Mycroft the strip of condoms. “If you’d like,” he says. It does make things a bit neater, though tidiness isn’t something he really prioritizes for sex without a specific reason, like a quick tumble during one’s lunch break. The greater imperative now is that they’ve got the luxury of choice: it is, with Mycroft, a singular question of preference. Lestrade swallows against the unexpected tightness in his throat.

Mycroft shakes his head, nudges the drawer closed. And there they are.

Mycroft kisses him, runs his hands over Lestrade’s shoulders, his back, his arse, which seems as good a hint as any. Lestrade grins against his mouth before he turns his back to Mycroft, kneels up. He squeezes some of the lubricant on his fingers, and there’s not really a graceful way to do this, to reach back and work himself open, but he also wants to be a good example. So he goes as slowly as he can make himself, easing one fingertip past the tight ring.

Mycroft’s hand is on his hip, but he’s not touching him anywhere else, is sitting back on his heels, watching. “May I?” His other hand slides down Lestrade’s arm to his wrist, to the back of his hand.

“Yes.” It doesn’t really matter that he’s not sure what Mycroft’s asking. But he hears the soft click of the of the bottle opening, and one wet fingertip strokes around his own, feather-light, exploring the sensitive skin. Lestrade’s not sure why he expected Mycroft might not want to participate in this part; he’s not squeamish about anything. Careful, yes. So very careful. He sighs, presses in further, and Mycroft kisses the back of his neck. His prick is a hot weight against Lestrade’s wrist, but his hand is still there, too, petting softly.

Lestrade pulls his own hand away, guides two of Mycroft’s long fingers into himself.

“Oh,” Mycroft says, a little breathlessly, and Lestrade echoes him with a soft sound as Mycroft’s hand shifts, as his fingers press and slide. Lestrade lets himself fall forward, braced on his palms, and he arches his back, leans, and _there_ his touch electrifies.

Mycroft’s fingertips curl again—he notices everything—and Lestrade moans, and Mycroft’s chest rests against his back as his teeth scrape across his shoulder, as his fingers scissor.

“Ready,” Lestrade says, and already his breath is blown, “when you are.” He is grinning, though, the pleasure pulling at the corners of his mouth, and he thinks he could laugh at the sound Mycroft makes, the urgent, imploring hum. Mycroft’s fingers pull away, and again there is the plastic sound, and there is the blunt heat of his prick pushing in.

Mycroft’s inhale is sharp, and he presses in so slowly, so gently, that it’s all Lestrade can do to keep from shoving back, taking him faster. But he waits until Mycroft’s hipbones are hard points against him, and Mycroft’s arm curls around his waist, holds tight. His exhale is Lestrade’s name, and he rocks his hips carefully.

Lestrade reaches, pets as much of Mycroft as he can reach. “Go on,” he says. “However you like. Trust me.”

Mycroft dusts kisses across his tattoo, squeezes him a little tighter, before Lestrade feels him straighten, pull back slowly, rock forward. When he glances over his shoulder, Mycroft’s staring at his arse, at the disappearing length of his prick, and the expression on his face makes Lestrade palm himself a little before he plants his hand again. The deliberate slide, the pressure of Mycroft’s hand at the base of his spine are their own brilliant torture, ceding bit by bit to speed, to more force.

Eventually, too, he moulds himself again to Lestrade’s back, and each short thrust sparks bright behind his eyelids while Mycroft’s mouth is hot, insistent suction on his shoulderblade between panted breaths, the occasional sharp bite.

Lestrade closes his fist around his own prick, lets each snap of Mycroft’s hips carry his hand, and when Mycroft comes, the sound muffled by Lestrade’s skin between his teeth, it doesn’t take long to get there himself—a few more hard strokes, Mycroft’s soft encouragements at his ear, the slide of Mycroft’s hand down his chest, the little pinch on his left nipple. The last startles him a bit; he comes with a sound halfway between laughter and a gasp.

Lestrade walks his hands out, collapses onto his stomach, and Mycroft, still curled around him, follows, a comforting weight against his back.

As Mycroft comes back to his senses, though, he tenses a little, holds himself up. Lestrade tugs him back down.

“Stay,” he says. “Feels good.” And it does, the heat of their bodies together, Mycroft’s prick still inside him, everything grounded, everything undone.

Eventually, though, they both have to move. Mycroft pulls away first, though he only gets as far as rolling onto his back, exhaling toward the ceiling.

“You’re a biter.” Lestrade can feel the tender ache. He laughs into the pillow.

Mycroft makes a questioning hum. Then, “I am—” The gentle skate of his fingertips. “I am so sorry.”

He turns his head as far as he can, and Mycroft leans to look at him, a bit of shock still on his face. “Don’t you ever apologize for that,” Lestrade says.

Mycroft ducks out of easy view again, and his lips brush the mark. “Still.”

“I like it.” Mycroft can bite as hard as he likes, as long as he doesn’t break the skin, and he can pull his hair forever as long as he doesn’t pull it out. He stretches, rolls onto his back, too, stretches again, and Mycroft tugs the sheet over them. He looks as though he would speak, but he doesn’t, only kisses him, soft and easy, his arm curled around Lestrade’s shoulders, his clean hand stroking through his hair.

“Just a minute,” he says, before Mycroft puts him to sleep with the petting. Lestrade stands, and his legs feel a little shaky. He walks toward the lav, and he feels the slight tickle of what can only be a drop of semen slipping down the back of his thigh. He turns his head, and Mycroft is staring, eyes fixed on his arse. His chest heaves once before he sees he’s been caught.

“I don’t understand what you do to me,” Mycroft says, and the colour in his cheeks increases.

“Hold that thought.” Lestrade closes the door behind him. There’s a short window between excitingly naughty and sticky and uncomfortable.

When he’s clean again, he comes out, leaves the door open. With the door flush against the small closet, the full-length mirror faces the bed, where Mycroft’s lying on his back on the opposite side of the king-sized bed. The sheet’s pulled up almost to his shoulders, but he has his arms folded behind his head.

“I mean to say,” Mycroft says, “that I am aware of the chemical processes associated with sexual release.” He exhales. “And I am not exempt from that.” A glance at Lestrade’s bare chest. “And nor do I wish to be.” He extends his arm, pulls Lestrade in against his side. “Just—” He doesn’t finish, only kisses him slowly. And though the kiss is gentle, Mycroft rolls toward him, presses them together, chest to thigh, holds him close.

“Just?” Lestrade says when they break apart.

Mycroft shakes his head minutely. “Nevermind.”

“No neverminds. Tell me.” Even if it’s that he doesn’t want to do it again. That seems unlikely, but it’s a possibility.

Mycroft reaches for his glass of champagne, drinks the last inch. They’ve still got most of the bottle, it having been forgotten at the start of the evening, and even if it’s gone slightly flat, it’s still the best he’s had. Mycroft puts down his glass.

“Just that it feels a bit impertinent to desire a second congress already. Regardless of the physical limitations of doing so.” He clears his throat, looks at the seam of the wall and ceiling across the room. “It is terribly distracting right now.”

Lestrade blinks. It’s been a while since he’s done this, having to translate the meaning from its needlessly complex surroundings. And it feels unfair to have to do it after sex, while his brain is making it difficult to do most things, but parsing it is absolutely worth it. He pushes himself up on his arms, kisses him again. At the press of his tongue, Mycroft’s hand cups his shoulder, keeps him there, until his arms start to shake.

“Is it more or less distracting,” Lestrade says, “if I say I want you again, as soon as I can have you?” Whether that’s in an hour, tomorrow morning, or sometime in between.

Mycroft runs his fingers through his hair. “Far less.” And his face seems to take on a focus. Lestrade wishes he could unthink the image of Sherlock at this particular point in time, but it’s the same impulse: the identification of the objective, the elimination of uncertainty.

He rests his head on Mycroft’s chest for a while—maybe he dozes—and Mycroft’s fingers play idly along his spine, his ribs.

In the champagne bucket, a strategic piece of ice must finally melt because the whole bottle shifts a fraction of an inch, and in the stillness of the room, the soft, slushy sound is audible. Mycroft props himself on his elbow. “Thirsty?”

Lestrade nods against Mycroft’s sternum. There is the problem of weighing the desire not to move just yet against the desire for the exquisite bubbly.

Mycroft makes an amused sound. “Shall I pour?”

“Please and thank you.” But his glass is at the foot of the bed still, on the floor, which is a problem. He starts to sit up slowly, the post-orgasm lassitude in all of his limbs, and Mycroft stays him.

“I’ll get it.” He picks up the robe that Lestrade had been wearing, slips it on, before padding to the end of the bed, picking up the glass. “I suppose they’ll have seen worse stains,” he says to the floor, where the toppled duvet must have knocked it over. There hadn’t been much in it, but Lestrade can’t help the little snicker as Mycroft takes the champagne flute to the sink to wash it. After a moment, he closes the door, likely to wash himself, too.

When he comes back into the room, he pushes the door closed again, the mirror obscured. That’s no accident.

Mycroft’s about to take the bottle of champagne from its nest of slowly melting ice when Lestrade catches his gaze.

“Take off the robe,” he says. “Please.”

“I promise I’ll get right back in bed.” His hand closes on the bottle’s neck.

“Mycroft.”

At his name, Mycroft looks up.

“Please.” There’s no screen in this room. He’d like it to stay that way.

Mycroft inverts the empty flute into its holder on the side of the champagne bucket, and his hands go to the robe’s tied belt. He looks at Lestrade as he undoes the knot, shrugs it off; the expression is half a scowl, really, but it softens into something else as he says, “There.”

“Thank you.” And he looks, takes in the expanse of pale skin, the slightly ruddy spots on his chest where Lestrade had nipped and sucked. Those will fade by morning. He is certain the mark at the edge of his tattoo will take most of a week to become invisible. As Mycroft pours, both of the flutes cradled between his fingers, Lestrade watches the slight flex of muscle in his arm, the taut tendons in his wrist. It makes him want to bite. And there is the heavy bob of his prick between his legs, flaccid and still beautiful. He wants to touch him, everywhere, even though he knows he’s a bit too sensitive for it yet, and there’s champagne to drink, and they’ll get to touching again soon enough.

Mycroft hands him his glass before sliding into bed beside him. He pulls the sheet up again, but only to his waist, and he sits up against the headboard. Lestrade does the same, though he can’t avoid running a hand down Mycroft’s chest, all the way to the top of his thigh, as a way of saying thank you, for the champagne, for the fact that he took off the robe to pour it.

They sip in relative quiet for a few moments before Lestrade finds the promise of more perfectly ripe summer fruit to be too tempting. He has a feeling that the sweet strawberries and the delicately flavoured figs were chosen deliberately to counterpoint the wine’s unexpected richness.

He leans over Mycroft, can’t quite reach the plate of fruit, so the only thing to do is get up, straddle his lap, and get it himself. If he forgets to move out of Mycroft’s lap on the way back, so he does. Mycroft insists on holding each strawberry, each bit of fig, to his lips. It feels more than a little silly at first, but it gives him a reason to lick Mycroft’s fingertips, to drag his teeth over the pad of his thumb.

“You’ve ruined me for anyone else,” Lestrade says. It feels irrevocably true after he says it. And he doesn’t mean only in bed. He doesn’t regret any of it, not one bit.

Mycroft looks smug about that before he says, “How many ‘elses’ came before?” Mycroft takes a mouthful of champagne like he hasn’t just asked the least popular question in the history of relationships.

Lestrade shakes his head. “No.”

“What?”

“No.” He reaches for the champagne bottle, and maybe he doesn’t feel quite so bad as he should for the tiny drop of icy water that falls on Mycroft’s stomach, makes him jump. “Answering that question only leads to trouble.” It turns into judgment or at least to jealousy, and Mycroft’s already demonstrated that he’s a bit susceptible to that. Best case scenario is inadequacy, and that’s certainly not the best of anything. Will was, at least, a notable exception to that rule; he wasn’t bothered by it. Likely because his own tally wasn’t far off from Lestrade’s. “Hn-nn,” he says again, as he swallows.

“Gregory,” Mycroft says, and his tone is patient. “You’re expecting me to react like other people react.” Which, as a rule, he generally doesn’t.

However. “April third.” The Friday afternoon when they’d run into Will.

Mycroft lifts his chin. “As you pointed out, it’s all worked out in my favour, hasn’t it?” He holds out another bit of strawberry, runs his fingers up Lestrade’s thigh again. “I should like it if you trusted me with the information.”

“That’s cheating.” Invoking trust. He chews.

“No,” Mycroft says. “Cheating would be finding out on my own.” They both know he could. “Or I could guess.”

“You never guess.”

“I don’t have to. It’s a question of simple maths and extrapolation.” His gaze rakes, and the feeling is not unpleasant. “You’ve been sexually active since…fifteen? No. Fourteen. First intercourse certainly a bit later than that—”

“Stop.” Not that any of it’s untrue, but this is Mycroft pulling things out of him, and their agreement was to offer things freely. And Mycroft has offered his sexual history freely. It makes no difference if the account is a bit less colourful than his own. Still, it’s hard to say, particularly where he isn’t one hundred percent certain on the number himself, especially once he starts trying to decide what _counts_ —he stalls. “You won’t like it.”

Mycroft cocks his head, raises his eyebrows. “Try me.”

Lestrade sighs. “Sitting here, undressed, with all of our digits, limbs, appendages, and accessories together, we cannot count that high.”

Mycroft ducks his head, licks at Lestrade’s right nipple. The contact startles him, but his mouth is hot against the room’s cool. He arches, not quite voluntarily.

“Triple digits, then,” Mycroft says. “Likely close to three times over, in thirty years of experience.” He’s not wrong. He licks again. “And in all of that,” Mycroft says, “I still have something no one else has had.”

What that is, he doesn’t say, though his hands knot at the base of Lestrade’s spine, and he presses his forehead to Lestrade’s chest before he mouths at the hollow of his breastbone.

Lestrade drags his fingers through Mycroft’s hair, tugs gently at the nape of his neck to raise his head so he can kiss him. Mycroft’s hands cup his arse, one light fingertip stroking between his cheeks, his prick jutting up between their thighs.

“Yeah.” Lestrade bites at Mycroft’s lower lip, his chin. “Again. Now is good.” Now is perfect. And they didn’t manage to knock the lubricant off the bed, earlier. He coats Mycroft’s fingers with the cool gel, and the slide this time is easy, urgent, and Mycroft’s eyes widen as Lestrade lifts himself up, holds Mycroft’s prick steady as he sinks onto it slowly, lifting up after each successive inch, relishing the gradual stretch, the heavy fullness when he’s seated in Mycroft’s lap.

Mycroft’s eyes flutter closed as he rolls his hips, as he leans back, his hands braced on Mycroft’s thighs. Lestrade gives himself over to the feeling, to the long strokes until he can’t help the rough moan each movement pulls from his mouth. Mycroft bends forward, leans closer, until he can nip across his chest, until their mouths slant together and Mycroft’s hand tightens in his hair.

“God, Mycroft.” His voice smudges across Mycroft’s jaw, and he scratches softly over Mycroft’s back.

He is completely unprepared for the raw sound Mycroft makes, for the way one arm curves around his waist, holds them together, as Mycroft arches into his blunt nails. He keeps the pressure fairly light, and Mycroft rocks up into him, one hand still knotted in his hair. Eventually, he lets go, settles back against the headboard again, but both hands rest on Lestrade’s hips, follow the pace Lestrade sets.

Lestrade smudges more lubricant on his prick, and Mycroft licks his lips as he strokes himself, his eyes flickering from his groin to his face, until he fits one hand over Lestrade’s, firms their joint grip before pulling Lestrade’s other hand to his mouth, sucking hard on his fingers.

“Not bloody fair.” It feels like Mycroft is touching every nerve ending he has, all at once, everything on the verge of too much because it’s maybe a little too soon, everything over-stimulated, everything like the afterimage of the sun, or maybe it’s the lamp in the corner, picking up the faint sheen of sweat on Mycroft’s chest, the impossibly dark centers of his eyes. He pushes down harder on Mycroft’s prick, and the resultant moan vibrates from Mycroft’s throat to the pads of his fingers to his balls. He echoes it as Mycroft’s hand tightens on him, as his come stripes Mycroft’s ribs, his stomach.

Lestrade pulls his fingers from Mycroft’s mouth, crushes their lips together, Mycroft’s hands both now curled over his shoulders, pulling him down until Mycroft stiffens, his prick pulsing warm inside Lestrade’s body. They sag together against the headboard, breathing hard until Lestrade tugs him down to the pillows.

“I felt that,” Mycroft says, a thread of marvel in his voice. “When you climaxed.” His lips are slightly parted, his voice still a little roughened.

Lestrade nods. “Feels nice, doesn’t it?” Another gross understatement. Tomorrow, his arse is probably going to be a little sore. It is already a more than fair trade.

Mycroft makes a slightly blurry but definitely affirmative sound in response, pressing his face into the crook of Lestrade’s neck. “Everything about you,” Mycroft says, “feels nice.” He yawns, looks a little mortified at having done so, and then apparently gives that up for curling in closer to Lestrade’s side.

They’re going to wake up stuck together, Lestrade knows, and he can’t bring himself to care. He tugs the sheet up over them and closes his eyes. Neither of them reach for the lamp.

***

They spend the first part of the day at the Museu Picasso, and they drink a coffee on a shaded bench in el Parc de la Cuitadella. Through the course of the morning, Mycroft demonstrates that his Catalan is as good as his Spanish, that his Slovenian is more than adequate for giving directions, and he can explicate Cubism, as an artistic movement, in Finnish. Lestrade slides his arm over the back of the bench, an inch from Mycroft’s shoulder. He’s wearing a pale fedora to match his linen suit, and Lestrade doesn’t even know where he managed to pack it, unseen until this morning. Of course, he can’t say he’s paid nearly as much attention to what’s in Mycroft’s suitcase and garment bag as he has to what’s come out of it, and more still to what’s eventually ended up tossed over the furniture in the hotel room. It’s nice paying attention to it now, if more than a bit distracting.

There’s a German couple standing a few paces behind them, sharing the shade from the same tree, and Lestrade’s heard the names of a few landmarks here and there. He’s not really paying attention, doesn’t understand more than one word in thirty, is looking mostly at people milling in the plaza before them. Mycroft speaks softly near his ear.

“They’re talking about you.”

He’s been in the game long enough to know better than to look up. “Who?”

“The couple behind us. They’ve agreed—and I agree with them—that you are very attractive.” Mycroft keeps his gaze fixed on the open newspaper in his hands.

“If you were any less than you are,” Lestrade says, “you would be completely insufferable.” He flicks the back of the paper. “Eavesdropping show-off.”

“He’s wondering what the odds of you fancying him are. She said she’s content to watch.” Mycroft’s face is completely straight, and Lestrade wishes he knew how he’s managing it here when he seems to blush easily in private. That might be the distinction: the public face and the private. He likes that he gets to see both.

“None. I’ve got you.” A breath, then Lestrade clutches at his sleeve. “Unless he’s ginger. Is he? You know I’ve got a thing for that.” He’s close to laughing, himself.

“No. Only broad, blond, jaw like a boxer.” A tiny ripple in the newspaper from the breeze or maybe a swallowed chuckle.

Lestrade settles himself more solidly against the bench, crosses his arms so their elbows touch. “Nah. Fuck it, then. Too much trouble if he’s not even a redhead.” Mycroft makes a noise that seems to say, “That’s reasonable,” as though this whole lark isn’t completely ridiculous.

The German couple is still talking quietly behind him, though he still doesn’t know what they’re saying. Mycroft leaves off narrating it though he continues that near-smirk, and Lestrade actually sort of forgets about it all because, sitting here on the hard bench, he can still feel the faint ache from last night, if he thinks about it. And he does. That’s what he’s thinking about when he hears a word he does know, a little louder than the rest had been. They’re saying goodbye. Something follows it. It makes no sense that they’re both saying it, sort of at the same time, rather than one to the other.

Mycroft repeats it, a little slower. “ ‘ _Auf Wiedersehen, Silberfuchs_ ’.” There’s a smug lilt to his voice, even in the mock-wistful farewell, Anglicized enough that Lestrade can’t miss it: _silver fox_.

“Now you’re just fucking with me.” Even if it did sound a great deal like that. And now he can’t help but turn and look at them walking away. At what he sees, Mycroft _has_ to be putting him on. Has to be.

Mycroft grins, folds his newspaper, and stands. “We should go if we’re going to be on time.” Which is to say a bit early: they’ve got their instructions to be there in time for all of Betsy’s playing and Lestrade wouldn’t miss that for the world.

***

They slide into the pew beside Bob, who’s holding down the fourth row all by himself. By his count, he’s been there since the dawn of time, or at least since the girls had to be there for their respective roles in the proceedings. Marisol has been with Lola since ten this morning. A thin, drawn-looking young man plays Pachelbel’s “Canon in D” on the organ, excruciatingly slowly. At his glance, Mycroft’s jaw is set just so, his eyes lifted toward the sloping edge of the vaulted ceiling. And the church is beautiful, a proper little cathedral, all glowing with the sunlight slanting through the stained glass. It’s not Sagrada Família, but it is everything Lestrade has always loved about grand old churches. He is certain, though, that Mycroft is thinking less about the clean, pale stonework and more about the uninspired rendition.

Lestrade whispers, “You be nice.” Mycroft’s expression doesn’t change, nor does his line of sight. In a few minutes, the church fills, and Lestrade waves dutifully as he recognizes a few people: Marisol’s little sister and her impossibly tanned fiancé, Mari’s parents. They sit in the row in front of them, make the appropriate gestures: plenty of time to talk after, since the music has started. The boy playing the organ is someone’s cousin.

Then comes Betsy with her guitar. Her hair is up, a tumble of curls on the back of her neck, and she’s wearing a long lilac dress, the skirt of it full and her arms bare to accommodate her playing. He can’t quite see her feet from here, but he thinks she’s wearing low heels, given how carefully she seems to be walking. He’s not sure how he feels about that. It seems like it was just a year ago she was just learning to tie shoes at all.

When she starts playing, though, he forgets about that.

“Albéniz,” Mycroft murmurs, and he leans forward half an inch as Betsy gets entrenched in the opening bars of “Córdoba.”

Bob leans forward, only half his attention toward them. “Just wait.” The rest of the church quiets, too, as the notes fill the space.

Lestrade thinks he knows what’s coming from something Betsy said a few weeks ago, but he doesn’t say anything. He only listens. And as “Córdoba” goes on, Corrie comes down the aisle, the white acolyte’s robe dwarfing her a little, and she’s not looking right or left as she walks, concentrating, it seems, on keeping the flame from guttering out. Lestrade remembers that feeling, too—of course, if it went out at their church, growing up, someone in the pews just took out a lighter, fired it back up. He glances at Bob, and the way he’s biting his lip against a grin says he’s remembering the very same thing, particularly when they got a bit older, a lot cheekier, and started looking for ways to make that happen.

But Corrie’s going about it completely seriously, and all of the candles actually catch properly until the whole front of the altar seems a wash of light. The effect is really quite lovely, and Corrie’s eyes are fixed high at the back of the church as she walks back down the aisle. “Córdoba” ends as Corrie disappears through the double doors, and as Betsy changes her music, Corrie comes half-jogging around the far side of the pew, clambering over Mycroft and him to flop between him and Bob. Bob kisses the top of her head and she pushes him a little, but she looks relieved that it’s over. She pokes at the barrette clipped into her short hair, a sparkly dragon-fly that matches the blue dress she’s wearing, and, without looking, Bob tugs her hand down, puts his own over top of it. She puts her left hand atop his. Bob puts his right over hers, and she pulls her right from the bottom of the pile, tops it again. He repeats with his left.

The first flurry of notes comes from Betsy’s guitar, and both Bob and Corrie freeze, their hands still stacked on Bob’s knee.

She’s playing “Asturias.” She hadn’t been going to. But she’s nailing it, everything up to speed, the notes tripping neatly as the song gains momentum. It’s hard to look away, but he has to steal a glance at Mycroft, and that was a mistake. Mycroft’s gaze is on her hands though his shoulders are rolled back, relaxed, his chin just slightly lifted. His eyes, too, close slowly, just for a moment. Lestrade turns his face back toward Betsy, tries hard to pretend that he hasn’t just seen that because he can’t react to it, not like he wants to, not here, not now. Mycroft’s knee touches his, though, one firm point. He reminds himself, too, that when she’s done, they can’t clap. It’s not a performance, it’s a wedding. It’s not appropriate.

But when Betsy hits the last cluster of notes, the final chord, and the remnants of sound drift up into the stone arches, a sharp whistle cuts over the congregation from the back of the church, the kind made with two fingers between the lips. Lola’s whistle. She claps, though she’s behind a door, out of sight until her entrance. And so the rest of them do, too, and everyone laughs, except for Lola’s mother, who shakes her head, biting back a smile. Betsy stands, bows, with her guitar. The boy who’d been playing the organ comes to carry away her chair and the music stand—which Lestrade is certain she never looked at—and another woman comes to the pipe organ.

Before the processional begins, as the groom and his best man file in, Betsy slides into the pew beside Mycroft with her guitar case. Her cheeks are flushed and her chest heaves, and she’s not looking at any of them, is settling the large case safely on the pew. He and Bob and Corrie are leaning forward, waiting for her to look up, but she doesn’t. She keeps looking at the case, at the hymnals in their racks on the back of the next pew. Mycroft leans toward her a bit.

“That was magnificent,” he says, quietly.

Betsy’s face finally cracks into a grin, and she looks at them, and Lestrade reaches behind Mycroft to squeeze her shoulder. If his hand slides across Mycroft’s shoulders when he pulls it back, so it does.

Then Marisol is walking down the aisle, takes her place at the front of the church, and the music shifts, and they all stand. Lola’s smiling behind her intricate lace veil, and the groom—Andres, the invitation said—is grinning back, and Lola’s mother has her hands clasped in front of her chest, her lips pressed together as though she’s going to cry.

The priest says something about being gathered together in the presence of God, in the symbolic light—a sweep of the hand that takes in the windows, the many candles—and he fist-bumps Corrie. He remembers to blow it up properly, and she grins.

And for all of the lead-up, the music, the décor, the wedding itself seems to go quickly, smoothly. Pleasantly.

He and Mycroft hang back with Bob as the rest of the people file out of the church. Bob will have to wait until most of the pictures are done to gather up the girls, and Marisol will stay with the bridal party until the reception at the hotel. Lola and Andres are doing a receiving line at the back of the sanctuary, and there’s no rush. Chances are, whatever Lola has to say to him won’t be rated for general audiences anyway.

So he takes the chance to tell Betsy, again, how brilliant her playing was, and he whispers to Corrie that he’s proud of her for sticking out the dress thing. She rolls her eyes at him and returns to looking around the church. There’s a little balcony in the back, one that he suspects is now mostly to allow access to an electrical panel, though it was probably for something else when the church was built. Corrie keeps watching it.

“What?”

“I swear I saw Anthea up there,” she says. “When I was coming back from doing the candles.”

He glances at Mycroft, who is studying the stained glass to the side, saying something about the process of leading the glass to Betsy, and they’re both trying to see if the windows are old enough that the glass has run, become thicker at the bottom than at the window-tops.

“Sorry, snitch, but Anthea wasn’t invited, and I can’t go on and invite her.” So she shouldn’t have been here. He’s not going to say for certain that she wasn’t because he’s accepted that he’s probably not going to know where she is at any given point. But, theoretically, she oughtn’t have been here. “I’ll ask Mycroft if he can invite her for breakfast tomorrow, maybe. If she’s not working.” She is, though, always working. It’s more a matter of where she happens to be.

Corrie looks up at him. “So she’s not going to be at the reception?” Her dark eyes are wide.

He has to shake his head. “Sorry.”

She sighs again and goes to join Mycroft and Betsy with feet that seem to weigh a ton each.

Bob leans in. “Who is this Anthea person? Works for Mycroft?”

He nods. “His…PA.” That’s the safest description, and it is still a true one. “She’s young and glamorous and has a way with cats.” Among other things.

The last part, Bob has clearly heard. “But she’s come along?”

“She goes everywhere with him. One of those blokes who’s always working.” He grins at Bob. “You know the type.”

“Nope. Not a clue.” Bob rubs his forearm where, under his jacket and shirtsleeve, there’s a burn from the time, early in the days of his restaurant, when he fell asleep, standing up, while pouring caramel, on hour thirty of his day. Shortly thereafter, he did hire a pastry chef.

The photographer is starting to gather people together near the altar.

“Best go make your introductions and get out before you’re roped into the photos because you look pretty.” Bob nudges him toward Mycroft. “Get out while you can.”

Lestrade collects Mycroft, tells the girls he’ll see them soon. And then he and Mycroft make their way toward Lola and Andres. Andres appears to already know him—“You look like Robert”—and to know something of him.

“I think I should say thanks to both of you,” he says, “or I’d never have turned her head.” He smiles, one of those slightly gap-toothed looks that is strangely attractive, and he’s got a mop of thick, sandy hair.

It could be snippy, but it’s not. His handshake is friendly, and he’s clearly a good sport—or he’d never have survived Lola. Lestrade introduces Mycroft, and then Lola pulls him a step away before hugging him tight, kissing his cheek.

“Thank you for coming,” she says. “I really am glad you came.” She glances toward Mycroft, looks him up and down quite obviously before winking at him and doing the same again. “Just look at you.”

The flattery is nice; the hassle and expense of the suit—purchased _entirely_ too close to Harrod’s for his taste and tailored to fit—worth it. The pearl grey fabric is smooth and light under his fingertips, and while he still hates the part where he’s _wearing_ the tie, Mycroft had looked long and favourably on the paisley-patterned tie, its fine flecks of plum and navy.

“Glad to be here,” he says, and he’s telling the truth. He is. Unequivocally, he is. “You look stunning, by the way.” She does. He’s never seen her look so happy, and the champagne-coloured lace of her dress is striking.

She accepts the compliment without demurring, and she leans in close again. “Just don’t let me catch you wearing white to yours, either. I know better.” She casts another significant look at Mycroft, who is offering his congratulations to Andres as smoothly as if they’d always known each other. He hears their conversation turn to how Andres and Lola met: a dinner party neither of them had really wanted to attend. _So glad I stayed for dessert_ , Andres says.

“Come off it,” he says, a puff of laughter escaping. He smoothes his tie. “I can’t get married. I haven’t got the décolletage to pull off the dress.” Lola’s neckline plunges dramatically.

“That is a problem.” She takes another look at Mycroft. “And it would be criminal to put him in anything else. Did you steal a tailor’s darling? Because he looks it.” And he does: Mycroft’s suit is its usual perfection, the blue a shade lighter than navy, just perched at the edge of what Lestrade would consider daring for a suit.

“Yes. The Met had to confiscate everything on Savile Row, and this terribly handsome man just happened to be there. Might have appropriated a bit of the evidence.” He knows Mycroft is hearing everything he says.

“Bravo,” she says, petting at the sleeve of his jacket. And then the photographer is hanging about expectantly, and Lola and Andres excuse themselves. He waves one more time to Betsy and Corrie, and he and Mycroft step out into the early evening sun.

They return to the room to pick up Lola’s present—a set of hand-thrown pottery bowls—and Lestrade keeps himself from turning the corner to even look at the bed. As it is, it’s hard enough to leave the room again: Mycroft presses him up against the door, and they kiss there long enough that, when they’ve composed themselves again, most of the other guests have already arrived at the hotel’s grand ballroom, where the reception will be. Lestrade puts the gift on the long table with all of the rest as Mycroft collects their place markers. He’s glad to see that Bob and the girls are at the same table, as well as one of Lola’s cousins and his guest.

Anthea, in a simple sheath dress the exact shade of the six ball in kelly pool, brings in the place marker for said guest, puts it down on Mycroft’s left. She’s wearing the thin, braided anklet the girls made her at the strap of her left shoe. The sleek leather matches the dress’s deep green exactly, and he thinks she may be the only woman under fifty in the room whose shoes are closed-toe. He is also certain that no one at all will be looking at her feet.

He blinks. She puts down the place marker for the cousin, too, whose name appears to be Jorge. She points at a short man with thinning brown hair at the bar. “We were in a class together at uni,” she says. “How fortuitous that I, being here on business—” A gesture toward Mycroft. “— should meet him in the hotel bar, and him being without his plus one.” She pulls out her own chair with the tall heel of one shoe, the motion quick and sharp, and sits.

“Ah, Salamanca,” Mycroft says. “Macroeconomics, was it? Those are always terribly large lectures.”

Anthea makes a quiet, agreeable sound.

Lestrade can’t say he isn’t glad to see her, though. The girls will be thrilled, and if he knows where she is, he doesn’t have to worry about her or about what she might be doing. And when Jorge turns back to the table, carrying two glasses of wine, he can see exactly why this fellow didn’t question a gorgeous bird like Anthea saying she remembered him.

Any awkward introductions are put on hold by the arrival of Bob and the girls, and Bob puts himself beside the cousin because Bob’s a good man. Corrie’s about to take the chair next to his own, then she switches with Betsy at the last second. Lestrade sees her peering around the centerpiece at Anthea. Anthea leans a little, waves to the girls.

Jorge, it seems, is an accountant, and it doesn’t matter if Lestrade’s worried about the story holding up: the man doesn’t much let anyone get a word in edgewise. Bob takes the brunt of it, too, maybe a little selfishly—Lestrade hears him ask at least four detailed questions regarding different facets of wine importation and tax law.

Lestrade is grateful when dinner arrives because at least he doesn’t talk with his mouth full, and the food’s as good as can be expected for hotel catering. He and Bob might trade some glances across the table, but not enough that anyone but Mycroft and Anthea notice.

But the meal passes quickly, a band replacing the quiet jazz that had been playing. Lola and Andres take the floor, and Lola’s brother calls Jorge to the head table for something. Marisol takes his seat without hesitation.

“And is this the famous Anthea?”

Before Anthea can respond, Corrie’s standing beside Marisol’s chair. “Yes,” Corrie says.

Lestrade grins, leans back in his chair, and he and Betsy and Mycroft talk a little more about Isaac Albéniz’s _Suite Española_.

A few minutes later, Betsy asks if she can go back to the room to get her notebook. The rest of the reception will be dancing, and there’s only the pale boy who played the organ who’s close to Betsy and Corrie’s age. Bob’s already gotten the “Muggle, please” for jokingly suggesting Betsy ask the boy to dance. Marisol gives her assent, and the girls go haring off for the lift. Anthea excuses herself to get another drink; she hasn’t so much as touched the glass of wine that Jorge had brought her.

Not long after, Betsy sneaks back in and steals Mycroft. When he would follow, she shoos him back. “You’ll see,” she whispers, and Mycroft disappears around the corner, into the interior hallway from the ballroom. At Bob’s _please tell me they haven’t broken anything_ expression, he follows anyway.

And then he does see: Corrie and Betsy in the hallway, Betsy indeed carrying a notebook, and Corrie wearing another suit, this one an even paler grey than his own, the waistcoat and bowtie a little darker, shot through with evergreen threads. Her hands are tucked in her pockets, and the barrette is gone, her hair artfully tousled. Mycroft steps back into the ballroom, looking for all the world like he wasn’t at all complicit in at least the bowtie-wrangling. He stops off beside Anthea, beside one of the tall windows, as she consults her mobile.

Marisol, of course, notices, immediately. She beckons the three of them. Corrie takes one of his hands, and Betsy takes the other, and together they walk.

“I did get my notebook,” Betsy says. Marisol nods. She looks at him, and the corner of her mouth turns up.

To Corrie, she says, “Did you hang up your dress?”

Corrie looks pointedly at the pepper shaker, but Betsy says that she did.

“ _Ven aquí, m’hija._.” Corrie steps in closer, and Marisol reaches, stands her hair up a little more. “There.” She kisses Corrie’s forehead. “It’s a very handsome suit.” She touches the neatly-tied bowtie.

Corrie nods. “More comfortable, too.”

“I am glad,” Marisol says. “You could help your father put himself together, too, next time.” Bob pulls a dramatic frown at his own shirt and tie, and Corrie gives him a little shrug before they bump knuckles. Then the three of them are free to go. They turn, and Lestrade feels one of them, Bob or Marisol, pat the back of his arm. Corrie stays at his side as they cross the room to where Mycroft is standing with Anthea, who seems to have lost her date in a fairly lasting way. Lestrade is relieved to see the man, a glass in his hand and his arm already around another bloke’s shoulders, both of them laughing uproariously at something.

***

They’re half a dozen songs into the evening, and Marisol has dragged Bob onto the dance floor because it is slow and romantic. Mycroft has been stolen by Lola, who, notably, does not ask his permission before stealing his date. The accountant approaches.

“If I could have this dance?” Jorge holds out one hand, and Lestrade can see the perspiration on it.

Anthea doesn’t even look at him. “No.” She continues her conversation with the girls about Ana Tijoux, and Mycroft comes back, trying to pretend that he hasn’t been passed around the dance floor by half of the women in the room, including Marisol’s mother. Lestrade can smell at least two different perfumes on his jacket.

“Must I check you for lipstick?” Lestrade does reach, touch the edge of his collar.

Mycroft cocks an eyebrow at him.

Then Betsy perks as the band begins an old Lena Horne number.

“You know it?”

She nods. “From _mi abuelo_. He likes Spanish music—” She ticks it off on one finger. “—and jazz.” She whispers conspiratorially. “He secretly likes New York. And I love this one.” _This one_ turns out to be “Where or When.”

Mycroft holds out his hand. “Then you should enjoy it.” He nods toward the dance floor.

Betsy shakes her head. “I’ve never danced to anything like this.”

“It’s terribly simple. I’ll teach you.” He offers his hand again. And they go, Betsy grinning. When it’s over, Corrie demands Mycroft for a turn, too, and it’s different: the neat little box-step he’s showing her changes leads, back and forth. He twirls her twice, and Corrie’s laughing as they walk back.

“Could I have him for a bit?” Lestrade proffers Mycroft a fresh glass of Cava. “Y’know. Since he’s my date.”

Corrie shrugs. “I guess. But you’re not even dancing with him.” She gives him a severe look.

And maybe he should be, Lestrade thinks, but that’s never been in his repertoire. He’s never even taken a date to anything like this.

Mycroft rescues him. “I would like a bit of a break, actually.”

The girls flank them, and Lestrade should have known better than to think there’d be much of a moment’s peace, but Betsy flips open her notebook, and Corrie and Anthea start talking about F.C. Barcelona. Betsy draws out a few musical staves, starts filling in notes. He can see the impressions of the ballpoint pen on the previous pages, sheets and sheets of hand-written music. He didn’t know she’d started composing. But he doesn’t want to interrupt, and so he talks quietly with Mycroft, fills in a little more of what he knows about the people here. Eventually, he notices that Betsy’s stopped what she’s doing, and when he glances at her, she holds up her pen, shakes it.

“It’s dead, Jim,” she says. Lestrade’s about to say he’ll go get her one from the front desk when Mycroft pulls a brown tortoiseshell pen from the interior pocket of his jacket.

He uncaps it. “Use mine.”

Betsy’s eyes widen and she takes it like it’s going to shatter. But she thanks him, and touches the fine italic nib to the paper, and draws in a sixteenth note. And she stares. She flips to the back of the notebook and just doodles for a moment, sweeping arcs and curves that turn into flowers and leaves, and then she goes back to the bar she’d been working on.

Lestrade leans in close to Mycroft. “You’re not going to be happy until you’ve got the whole world under your thumb, are you?”

Mycroft picks up his glass. “And now you understand me.” Shark-like is the only way Lestrade can think to describe his grin.

Lestrade blinks at him. “You’re just playing the room.” He settles back, hooks his elbow over the back of the chair. “You magnificent bastard.” It’s tinged with a little laughter, but the sentiment remains.

“I told you: I don’t like people, generally.” Mycroft taps one finger on his glass. “I like _your_ people.” He casts a fond look toward Betsy, who is changing a quarter note to a rest. Lestrade thinks he trusts, too, that Mycroft wouldn’t bother saying it if he didn’t mean it. Mycroft’s eyes flick out over the dance floor, resting on the various and sundry people he’s shaken hands with, danced with, spoken to. “But the rest of this—” His eyebrows lift, and he takes another sip of his Cava, shaking his head minutely.

“You don’t have to, you know.” He didn’t bring Mycroft here to glad-hand people that he doesn’t even really know. “This isn’t work.” He looks him in the eye. “Right? Please tell me this isn’t, actually, somehow attached to work.” A glance at Anthea, who catches his eye and smirks in a way that he’s sure is just meant to fuck with his head a little because she goes right back to her conversation with Corrie.

Mycroft shakes his head. “No. Much as certain people might like to think they’re of global importance—” A dark look at Jorge, who is now trying to chat up a woman Lestrade thinks is Andres’s aunt, if he remembers the introductions. “—this is pleasure, not business.” His ankle touches Lestrade’s under the table.

“Then promise me you’ll treat this like a holiday. You don’t have to make nice on my account.” It’s been weird enough already—Marisol’s mother asking about work and asking it like she’s interested in the answer, Marisol’s father stopping off to tell him some artists to listen to, to actually thank him, out loud, for encouraging Betsy in music. _It is hard for young people to stick with one thing,_ he’d said. _It is good to find what is important, to have support while you pursue it._ He’d patted his shoulder, didn’t act like the queerness was going to somehow rub off.

Mycroft laughs. “I don’t ‘make nice.’ Strategy, Gregory. Strategy.” He leans in, steals a single quick kiss.

Corrie’s giddy little hum sounds right behind his head. Lestrade turns to look at her. “I’m going to fetch drinks. Do you want anything?” She stands up on her tip-toes, leaning on the back of his chair.

“Fanta,” Betsy says, without looking up from her music.

Mycroft stands. “I’ll accompany you.” Corrie’s hands are a bit small to carry five glasses, and she’s a bit young to be served the wine they’ve been drinking. As they walk away, Lestrade sees Corrie take her right hand from her pocket, set her shoulders square and high, just like Mycroft’s. He laughs, props his chin in his hand, and watches.

As they’re walking, they stop in front of the big windows facing the balcony, the city below. Corrie points at something—Lestrade can’t see what—and Mycroft nods, speaks. He’s doing it in Spanish, that much is clear from his mouth, and Jorge walks right up to him, starts talking while Corrie’s replying to Mycroft. Mycroft doesn’t turn, only holds up his hand in Jorge’s general direction. Corrie stops speaking, looks from Mycroft to Jorge and back, and the man’s a little red-faced, whether from drink or the fact that Mycroft’s just shushed him, Lestrade doesn’t know. Mycroft’s left hand makes a little prompting gesture, and Corrie steals another look at Jorge before she continues whatever it was she was saying. The man breaks in again, and Lestrade sees Mycroft turn, his face not toward the table, so Lestrade can’t even take a stab at lip-reading. All he knows is that Jorge turns on his heel and walks away, and Mycroft and Corrie finish their conversation before heading to the bar.

When they return, Corrie gives Anthea her drink, and Betsy tugs her chair around to sit with Anthea and Corrie.

Lestrade accepts his glass. “What did you say to him?”

“I only said that I didn’t wish to explain basic etiquette to him. In a manner of speaking.” Mycroft glances toward the window. “Did you know Jupiter is still visible tonight, despite the city lights? If you look out toward the sea, not far off the horizon. Pleasant surprise,” he says.

Lestrade leans in, steals a kiss of his own.

***

Marisol asks if she can borrow Mycroft for a dance, and Betsy tugs Marisol’s father out onto the dance floor for Ella Fitzgerald. Lestrade is impressed with the singer’s range—the pacing of all of the songs seems fairly similar, but the man’s managing a lot of styles and requests, all more than passably well.

Bob props his cheek on his fist, looks out across the room. “Is he real?” Bob shakes his head to answer himself. “I don’t think he is. Someone pinch me. Better yet. Let me pinch him.” He waggles his eyebrows.

“You’re straight, you’re married, and you’re not allowed to hit on my boyfriend.” He’s certain he’s not had nearly enough wine to feel as weightless as he does now.

“I’m not hitting on him. He’s over there, letting my wife hit on him.” Bob laughs as Marisol chooses that moment to glance at him from across the dance floor, to wink as though she can guess what they’re talking about. She probably can. “Just saying I think you’ve done all right. For once.” Bob manages not to spill any of his Syrah despite Lestrade’s elbow. “Besides. I told you years ago you couldn’t fuck around with my mates and you did anyway. So I’ll hit on him if I want.”

There isn’t much he can do to argue with that. It had definitely made things more than a little weird for Bob when they were young men. But there is, surprisingly, very little weird now. Except for Marisol’s mother having hugged and kissed him earlier while he was on his way to the toilet. He’s going to blame it on the Cava.

“Hope your ears haven’t been ringing,” Bob says, as Mycroft sits again. “Because we’ve been talking about you.” Bob has his elbow on the table, his glass hanging from his fingers, though he keeps one free enough to point to Mycroft. “And it’s time to get down to the brass tacks, Mr. Holmes.” The glass is put down, and Bob leans forward. “You’re clearly doing well for yourself, you’re educated, you’re interesting, you can dance—and fuck you, by the way, for that, because I’m never going to hear the end of it.”

Mycroft laughs and it’s genuine—which is good. But Lestrade can see Mycroft’s lap, the curl of his fingers on his own thigh. And he understands: he’s not entirely certain where Bob’s going with this. He thinks it’s one of two options. Which is to say: fifty percent chance of this becoming more than a bit awkward. Bob goes on.

“You’re smarter, better looking, and more successful than Greg’s got any chance of being.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrow and he opens his mouth to argue—which is adorable, even though everything Bob just said is true—but Bob holds up a staying finger.

“And I want to know, Mr. Holmes, one thing.” Bob reaches across the table, his hand an inch from Mycroft’s chest. Lestrade can see Anthea’s head turn toward them, her first step. Bob flicks Mycroft’s periwinkle-edged pocket square. He pulls his hand back. “Tottenham. Really?” He folds his arms on the table. “All that going for you. But this?” A slow shake of his head. “Greg said you weren’t even raised on that rubbish, which means you made that choice, all on your own. How do you live with it?”

A few yards away, Anthea turns back to her conversation with the girls, a bit of a grin on her face. After a second of silence—and Lestrade’s actually worried that Mycroft’s offended—Mycroft nearly whoops with laughter before he covers his mouth, composes himself. He clears his throat.

“Despite a disappointing end to the current season—” Spurs finished eighth in the league, a full twenty-one points behind Arsenal. “—I am certain, in the long run, that our side will prove their greater quality.”

“Fine.” Bob holds out his hand. “Twenty years is a long time. We’ll see who comes out on top.” Total points over the next two decades. In the horrifying event of relegation, all points for those seasons are null. “Official tally at Bits’ thirty-third birthday.”

Mycroft shakes on it. Pride and a case of wine at stake. “I’ll tell her you’re weeping because you’re just so proud of her.” Lestrade is certain he shouldn’t find Mycroft’s insufferably superior expression to be so tempting, but it is.

Marisol sweeps in behind them. “You’re all clearly up to no good,” she says. “My turn. Again.” In their corner, the band sweeps into a tango, into “Por Una Cabeza.” She holds out her hand to Mycroft. Lola and Andres are already pressed together on the dance floor, as are half a dozen other couples.

Mycroft looks at Bob. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“She loves to dance, and I don’t. _Bonne chance_.” Bob raises his glass to them.

Mycroft touches the back of his neck as he stands, leads Marisol out onto the dance floor.

“If he weren’t so smitten with you,” Bob says, “I’d have to hate him on principle.” He claps Lestrade hard on the shoulder and walks over to Lola’s brother, who is beckoning him.

That leaves him alone to contemplate Mycroft on the dance floor, the careful half-moon of his arms, the crisp shift of his feet, Marisol’s champagne-coloured heels cutting smartly between and around. Where Lola and Andres are using the dance as an excuse to drape themselves all over each other—an impulse Lestrade understands, understands so well—Marisol and Mycroft are putting on a clinic of technique, the utter control of the space between them and its periodic strategic collapse. They snap together and apart, circling each other and the notes, and it’s beautiful, the whirl of Marisol’s dress, the small flashes when the light catches on her jewelry, on the silver stud of Mycroft’s tie-pin. He edges his chair a little more under the table, swallows hard.

Betsy and Corrie appear behind him, and he drags his eyes away from Mycroft for a moment to acknowledge them. Anthea’s standing another step behind, drinking what he’s fairly certain is plain tonic water with lime.

“You know what this means, right?” Corrie rests her elbow on his shoulder.

Betsy finishes it. “You have to sing.”

He nods, and he holds his hand out for Mycroft’s pen, a bit of paper from Betsy’s notebook. He writes the title and asks the girls to check with the band. Betsy is triumphant. She’d made him sing this one a few weeks ago on Skype while she played it on guitar. They skitter off, and he sees them corral the band’s singer, who is standing off to the side, seemingly grateful for the break. The man’s been through everything from The Gypsy Kings to The Beatles to Sinatra to Joan Manuel Serrat. Lestrade’s hoping the desire for another break is enough to get him five minutes’ use of his band.

And then he is watching Mycroft and Marisol again, her swift twirl under his arm, the long sweep of Mycroft’s leg. Anthea’s standing just behind his shoulder.

“Where’d he learn to do that?” He doesn’t look at her. “Why?” How and when also apply. He bites his lip.

“Argentina.” That seems to be her response for both, and she offers the when of her own accord. “Two thousand and one. If the dancing is compulsory, best be good at it.” And she walks away as the music comes to a close.

The singer comes back with a Julio Iglesias song Lestrade knows he’s heard before but can’t name, and he tries to think about what the title is as Mycroft walks back to the table, having left Marisol with Bob at the head table. Lestrade pushes back Mycroft’s chair for him, and when Mycroft sits, looking terribly pleased with himself, he takes a sip of his wine.

“That was amazing.”

Mycroft gives him a modest half-shake of his head—one he doesn’t believe one bit—and he startles when Lestrade catches his hand beneath the table. He can’t kiss him here, not like he wants to; he’d never be able to stop it at the mouth. But he can stroke the inside of Mycroft’s wrist, press his thumb into the center of his palm, drag his own fingertips the length of each of Mycroft’s fingers. Mycroft squeezes his hand, tight and urgent, and they’re both not-looking at each other for the moment. It’s electric and silent and Lestrade knows he _can’t_ look, not now.

So he watches the singer, the older couples in their easy sway on the floor, watches Betsy watching the upright bass player, Mycroft’s hand and his knotted on Mycroft’s thigh.

Then the singer makes eye contact with him, lifts his chin a little, and he hates to let go of Mycroft, but he does. He pushes his chair back, stands, and now they look at each other, and now he can grin at Mycroft, the way Mycroft did at him. As he walks toward the small raised platform where the band is, Lola claps. He’ll take that as assent.

He takes the microphone, and the bassist walks them all into “If the Stars Were Mine” He’s surprised that they know it so well. The album itself hasn’t been out very long—only a few months—but it’s surely popular for this sort of event. And people seem to recognize it as the dance floor fills. He steps down onto the floor as Lola and Andres come together, and he directs the lyrics to Andres—“put the stars right in a jar and give them all to you”—as the bride and groom giggle into each others’ shoulders before he steps back up onto the stage. He doesn’t know the band very well, so it’s a good idea to stay where they can all see each other, and the bassist takes over the little scat improv in the middle, which he appreciates.

As the song draws closer to the end, though, he risks a glance at Mycroft, standing alone at the back of the room for the moment. It’s only years of practice doing this sort of thing that lets the words come out, properly, as his stomach tightens. It makes no sense that he’s thinking now of the watercolours hanging in Mycroft’s flat, the green and blue ribbon of trees and water along the motorway near Le Pirou, their hands together on Mycroft’s leg. As the song drifts to a close, Mycroft steps through the doors to the open balcony.

Lestrade returns the microphone, thanks the band for indulging him, and accepts his kisses from both Lola and Andres. Bob just shakes his head, though he and Marisol are still leaning against each other near one of the walls. Eventually, he’s able to extricate himself—after Betsy hugs him and croons about the bassist all at the same time—and he steps out onto the balcony. The cooler air is fantastic, and the visible fringe of the city is a glitter of lights.

Mycroft’s standing in the lee of a collection of potted ficus trees, his jacket folded over one arm. Lestrade slips his own off, too, steps in close, and for a few breaths, they stand there, not-touching, while the band turns on “ _Besame Mucho_.” Then he reaches, lifts Mycroft’s jacket from his arm, hangs it, with his own, over the balcony railing. There is Jupiter, a bright spot deep in the black sky.

Where, ten minutes ago, Lestrade had felt ready to tear Mycroft’s clothing off, the feeling is much more deliberate now, the near-magnetic shift that leaves them facing each other. Lestrade reaches again, and Mycroft steps into his arms, one hand cradling the back of his head. They kiss slowly, carefully; they can leave each other stubble-burned and gasping later. Mycroft’s hand slides from his hair, down over his shoulder, comes to rest in the middle of his back, as his other hand knots with Lestrade’s. And they sway together for a moment before Lestrade even realizes what’s happening, and his feet follow Mycroft’s, forward and back, in the trees’ shadowed space.

Mycroft kisses the top of his ear. “I thought you hated dancing.”

“I do.” He slides his fingers beneath the silky back of Mycroft’s waistcoat, finding the flat plane of his shoulderblade. “This is something else.”

Mycroft makes an agreeably disbelieving sound and turns them, deftly, so they can look in on the rest of the party, now quieting, thinning. It is strange how easy it is to move with him, to follow his lead. He’s never done this before.

They stay on the balcony through the remainder of the song, and another, and when they step back inside, half of the guests are gone, including the guests of honor. Betsy and Marisol are dancing to what seems to be, inexplicably, a Spanish cover of “A Hard Day’s Night,” giggling at Corrie and Bob, who appear to be doing their best bits from the dancing scene in _Pulp Fiction_.

When it ends, the singer says the next song is the last, and Bob actually sweeps Marisol into his arms for a song Lestrade knows he has never heard before, something in Catalan. Betsy turns her big, brown eyes on him, and there’s no resisting that. He can manage a bit of a shuffle for her sake, though he’d been rather proud of having evaded the dance floor altogether until this point.

Betsy twirls him, and he’s had just enough to drink that it’s hilarious. In the process of the spin, though, he sees Corrie step up to Anthea. He tries not to stare, to look only when his and Betsy’s natural turns leave him facing that way. In the next slow revolution, Corrie’s leading Anthea in a careful box-step, and in the next, Corrie’s standing atop Anthea’s steel-toed shoes, and Anthea’s steps complicate, lengthen. It’s uncanny how easily Corrie follows, how her feet mirror Anthea’s, because nothing looks labored, nothing suggests that Anthea’s lifting Corrie with each step. They’re held together by nothing more than their palms pressed together, their fingers laced. Lestrade is reminded of nothing so much as trapeze artists. Which means he’s certainly had his last glass of wine for the night.

Betsy seems to be gesticulating at someone behind his back; he can feel the slight flutter of air on the nape of his neck.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says, and sort of hugs him. A second later, there’s Mycroft.

“Might I cut in?”

It takes a little too long to recognize that he’s talking to Betsy, not to him. She puts his hand right in Mycroft’s. He tries to protest. They had their dance on the balcony. And Bob will never let him live this down.

But Mycroft says please, and Lestrade puts his hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.

***

The morning after the wedding, Lestrade wakes—somehow—before Mycroft, who’s put his pyjamas back on at some point, and something about the room feels different. The hair on the back of his neck prickles, and he sees that the curtain over the balcony window is ajar, not at all like they left it last night, pulled close. As carefully as he can, he slides out of bed, wraps in the robe he’d thrown on the floor last night, takes his mobile from the nightstand, thumbs it on. When he eases around the corner, peeks onto the balcony, it’s empty. The sky’s just beginning to go peach in the east, and he hasn’t gotten nearly enough sleep to be feeling like this. He turns to look into the front half of the suite, and he isn’t expecting to see this: Corrie curled up on the sofa, wrapped in the extra blanket from their closet. She’s got one hand stretched out to rest on the arm of the chair beside it, but the chair is empty. He tucks her hand under the blanket, and she doesn’t stir.

When he touches the seat, it’s still a little warm. There’s a note on the stand beside it. _Found Corrie in the hallway, must have had a nightmare. Didn’t want to go back to their room, wanted to come here. So._ No signature, no initials, but this is Anthea’s handwriting. There’s also a thumb drive sitting beside it. Surely that will have some explanation of its own.

From the balcony, he looks in all directions, sees no sign of her. Maybe she could have gone through the actual door to the room, but he’s certain that would have woken Corrie, if not him. So she must have gone out this way, but she isn’t here now; there’s only the slowly waking city and no way that he can see for her to get anywhere from here that doesn’t involve a fair amount of acrobatics at ten stories up. He swallows and tries not to think about that. Hopes to Christ that, whatever Spiderman tricks Anthea has, Corrie didn’t see them. His mobile vibrates, and it’s Marisol.

He answers with, “Yeah, she’s here.”

Marisol’s sigh is long. “She left a note saying so, but you never know with that one. Now we can call off the dogs.”

He hangs up, and when he gets back in bed, Mycroft curls around him. “We still have a visitor?”

Of course Mycroft knew. Would have been nice for Mycroft to inform him of it so he could preempt Mari’s panic a little. “How did I sleep through that?” Nevermind that Corrie’s a little sneak and Anthea never makes any noise and he was pretty well shattered when they finally went to bed around three. His lips still feel a little swollen, crushed, and there’s a love-bite near the base of Mycroft’s neck that’s visible even in the near dark.

“No idea,” Mycroft mumbles against his ear. “Now sssh.”

When he wakes again, Mycroft’s in the toilet and the sliding door to the balcony is wide open. He gets out of bed, puts on a t-shirt and his jeans from yesterday, and there’s Corrie, peering up at the balcony above. She’s wearing athletic shorts and an F.C. Barcelona t-shirt, and he picks her up, mock-heaves her over the balcony. “Can’t have this sort of thing lying around. Unacceptable.”

She laughs and says, “Give me Xavi or give me death!”

He puts her down. “Your mum’s got you brainwashed.”

She’s already looking back up at the balcony. “Anthea left this way last night. I know she did. I was watching the door.”

He bends to eye-level with her. “No squirrelly ideas, you.” The last thing any of them need is Corrie climbing balconies, fire escapes, and drainpipes, in Barcelona, New York, or otherwise.

She shakes her head earnestly. “I know.” She steps up onto one of the chairs, steadies herself on his shoulder as she moves her feet onto one of the arm-rests and peers up at the metal brackets holding more flowerpots on the next balcony’s front. “I’m too short. I’d never make that jump.”

That’s not at all reassuring. Nor is it reassuring that Anthea apparently can: can not only make the jump, but pull herself up onto the next balcony using an apparatus meant to hold two bougainvilleas and certainly not a person. That’s without thinking about the potential fall.

“Time to put you on the ground floor,” he says. “Come on. We’ll go fetch some breakfast.” There is room service, but he’d really rather go out. It’s always more interesting that way. It also gives Mycroft a bit of time to himself, in case he wants to do his yoga or just have a modicum of peace after last night. He slides on his trainers, pockets the flash drive, and he’s glad to see that Corrie’s got a pair of sandals, that she at least didn’t go walkabout in the middle of the night barefooted.

He texts Mycroft from the hallway to ask if there’s anything particular that he wants, sends a similar message to Marisol and Bob, and they step out into the bright morning. It’s certainly close to eight now, but everything is still fairly quiet. He loves Spain.

They amble for a while until they find a little café that’s open. The options are a bit slim, being Sunday morning, but there’s a respectable crowd inside, even though it’s early, and the people don’t look like tourists.

They sit, him with coffee, her with a cinnamon-spiced hot chocolate, to wait for the _churros_ and sausage rolls and drinks they’ve ordered to take along. He takes the flash drive from his pocket. “What’s this?”

Corrie rubs whipped cream from the tip of her nose. “Security footage.”

Of all of the things he was expecting, that wasn’t it. “Come again?”

She nods. “Security footage. From the lobby cameras. So you know where I was.” She stirs the rest of the whipped cream into the thick chocolate. And she sighs. “Remember those nightmares I used to have?”

Night terrors, more like. From four to six, she’d wake up screaming, pursued by something: giant spiders, axe murderers, scraps and pieces from something she’d seen that day. He remembers Bob and Marisol being at their wits’ end about it, not able to keep it from happening, just having to get up with her in the middle of the night, stay with her. And then they just stopped, like she’d grown out of them. He just waits to see how it all comes together.

Last night was another one. “I didn’t scream, though,” she says, and she brightens at that. “But everyone was asleep, and Betsy gets crabby when I wake her up now, and Mum and Da looked so cozy—” She shrugs. “But you stay up really late sometimes, so I thought I’d check.” And then she found Anthea in the hallway. “Her room is just above yours, did you know that?”

He did know that. Which absolutely confirms Anthea’s exit-via-balcony.

“And she said you and Mycroft were probably sleeping, so we went down to the lobby to get some tea. They have tea in the lobby all night.” She doesn’t go on until he does, in fact, acknowledge the tea and coffee station in the corner of the lobby, that he has seen it. The tea was ginger, and they sat there for a long time—hence the flashdrive—and did he know that Anthea used to have nightmares, too?

He shakes his head.

“She said it’s easier, sometimes, to have someone to tell about it. So she listened.” She steals a little sip of his espresso, makes a face at the bitterness, and chases it with a big gulp of her own drink. “She’s a really good listener. I don’t think she’s always had someone to listen.” Her eyes fall to the table.

There’s something spiky-feeling in his throat. He swallows past it. “I’ll listen, too. You want to talk about it some more?”

“Hn-nn.” She grins. “All good now.”

When she was younger, sometimes she’d cry for two days, unable to shake whatever it was that had frightened her so. He believes her now.

She goes on. “And she let me into your room. And I guess she sat with me until I fell asleep.” She looks at him over her cup. “You’re not mad, are you?”

“Of course not.” He reaches, squeezes her hand. “I’m glad you feel better now. And you can always wake me up if you need me. Any time. Day or night. Now or twenty years from now.” He has a feeling that, in about four years, they’re going to be talking a lot. He doesn’t know if he feels grateful or terrified. He supposes he’ll decide when it happens.

Corrie nods. He glances over his shoulder at the counter to see how their order’s doing, and soon, they’ve both got both hands full and they’re walking back to the hotel as quickly as possible because _churros_ are definitely better while they’re still warm.

At Bob and Marisol’s door, they divide drinks and breakfast appropriately. He waves to Betsy and leaves Corrie to her inevitable _you should have woken us up_ speech. Because she should have. And yet—he’s kind of proud of her.

Back in the room, Mycroft, lamentably, is already dressed, though the sofa and chair have been moved a bit, so he did do his yoga this morning.

“Missed it, did I?” He puts down the cardboard caddy and the two bags in favour of kissing his mouth, then his ear until Mycroft shivers and pushes him away.

“Mm, stop that.” He accepts his coffee, though, with a lot of extra touching of Lestrade’s hands, and he texts Anthea before returning to whatever it was he’d been reading on his phone.

Lestrade wonders if she’s even awake yet; she can’t have had more than two or three hours of sleep. He puts aside her _café con leche_ , considers putting it on ice because it will be better that way than lukewarm, when there’s a little tap on the balcony glass. Mycroft doesn’t even look up as Lestrade pushes the door open.

“Now you’re just showing off,” he says to her cool expression, and he holds out her drink.

Anthea stares a moment at the way her name’s been printed, in black marker, across the plastic lid. It looks like her own handwriting—nearly perfect, save the ‘e,’ which went a bit wonky—and Corrie’d spent a good minute commandeering the barista’s Sharpie to make it happen. And she grins before taking a _churro_ from the bag and sitting in the armchair again.

He can’t help it. “You should have woken me.”

She nods. “Could have. But you were asleep and I wasn’t. So.” She dips her pastry in her coffee. “It was nice, sitting with her.”

Mycroft’s head swivels, but she’s not looking at either of them, is favouring cinnamon and sugar instead.

She chews, swallows. “You can check the digital lock logs against the security timestamp if you want.” She takes another _churro_.

“Thanks.” Lestrade just puts himself on the far end of the sofa and drinks his coffee, Mycroft’s feet between his. He should get up, should start getting things together so they can leave for Marseilles, but the breeze from outside seems to blow the sunshine in, to turn the room bright and gold. There’s time still.


End file.
